


Baskerville Heights

by Ghislainem70



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: AU, Angst, Book: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Crossover, Gothic, M/M, Romance, Suspense, Wuthering Heights - Freeform, ghost story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8524654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70/pseuds/Ghislainem70
Summary: The gloomy and misanthropic Sherlock Holmes is master of Baskerville Heights on Dartmoor. The house and its master seem to be haunted by a mysterious ghost called John.  A retelling of Wuthering Heights crossed with ACD's The Hound of the Baskervilles.





	1. Bad Dreams in the Night

Chapter 1: Bad Dreams in the Night

**Baskerville Heights**

_Out on the wiley, windy moors_  
_We'd roll and fall in green_  
_You had a temper_  
_like my jealousy_  
_Too hot, too greedy_

_How could you leave me_  
_When I needed to possess you?_  
_I hated you,_  
_I loved you too_

_Bad dreams in the night_  
_They told me I was going to lose the fight_  
_Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering_  
_Wuthering Heights_

_Heathcliff, it's me, your Cathy,_  
_I've come home_  
_I'm so cold, let me into your window_  
_Ooh, it gets dark, it gets lonely_  
_On the other side from you_

_I pine a lot,_  
_I find the lot_  
_Falls through_  
_without you_  
_I'm coming back, love_  
_Cruel Heathcliff,_  
_my one dream_  
_My only master_

_Too long I roamed in the night_  
_I'm coming back to his side_  
_to put it right_

**Track: Wuthering Heights, Michael Mills cover, all rights reserved Kate Bush[Listen to Wuthering Heights](https://youtu.be/WnG5iLR9g9k)**

Chapter One -- Bad Dreams in the Night

_Extract from Letter of Dr. Michael Stamford, M.R.C.S. to Mr. M. ---ton, London._

_Merripit House, Grimpen, Dartmoor. 12 November, 1845_

. . . I had been feeling fortunate for a man of my position, to secure a place in the surgery of a retiring doctor in the village of Grimpen. The situation promises a steady if not demanding country practice in the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow. Far from London, you will be thinking, dear --ton, and how right you would be shall be seen.

I had been directed by an exceedingly curt missive in an elegant hand, signed by my new landlord only with the initials "SH", to secure the keys to my new lodgings from his hands at his house, which is called Baskerville Heights. Never having visited the county, I was impressed and I confess a little downcast at the desolate prospect of the moors that are the principal feature of the country about Grimpen.

At Grimpen -- as grey and dreary-seeming place, I confess, as its name promised -- I was given directions to walk the moor path to Baskerville Heights. Nobody about was willing to drive me up nor lend me a horse and daylight was wasting, and so I walked upwards of three miles in chill winds that threatened more than once to knock me right off my feet - I can imagine your laugh at my expense, sturdy as I am, but I promise you that nothing could prepare one for the inhuman howling and power of these Dartmoor winds, especially as one climbs higher toward what the Grimpen folk call "the Heights."

Baskerville Heights is a lonely manor house set quite apart from the village or any other habitation. It is built of local stone, solidly built and seems to set itself against the winds. The windows are deep and narrow. The house was approached by an ancient yew hedge, twelve feet high, and probably hundreds of years old. In that gloomy alley, I had my first relief from the relentless winds, but the dark overshadowing of my path by the old yews seemed to almost warn me against proceeding to the house.

Now you'll be upbraiding me for abandoning my medical training and critical mind to fancies, but when you hear the tale of my night in Baskerville Heights --- may it be my first, last and only! -- you shall judge.

I indeed chastised myself, as you can imagine, against unreasonable fancies and gave a smart rap at the front door which bore a lintel stone carved "1500 -- Hareton Watson." Within, a snarling and whining made me doubt whether the door would be opened by a man or a pack of wolves.

"Mrs Hudson! The door, damn you!" A deep and surprisingly cultivated male voice shouted from within. An indistinct female voice answered somewhat tartly as I shivered on the doorstep. Finally the door was wrenched open and a tall man in a long greatcoat with a quantity of unruly dark curling hair falling over his forehead appeared. A pack of huge grey-coated hounds swarmed behind him, apparently ready to tear my throat out at a signal from him, which they waited for with alarming attention, I thought.

"Well?" the man scowled down at me fearsomely. "Who the deuce are you, then?"

I was about to produce his letter by way of introduction when he held up an imperious gloved hand.

"Don't trouble yourself. I perceive that you are a doctor -- recently at St. Bartholomew's Hospital -- Dr. John Abernethy's ideas are not entirely unsound -- I further deduce that you have recently lost the affections of a lady, and have as a consequence left town to take up the medical practice of old Dr. ---son at Grimpen. I congratulate you on the former circumstance, and condole you on the latter."

Could I have opened my mouth to gape, I would have, but my lips were near frozen with cold.

"Mister Sherlock! Let that gentleman in out of the cold! What can you be thinking of!"

"My privacy, and the deuced inconvenience of unwanted visitors," he snapped in return, still making no move to invite me inside. Fortunately, a trim, elderly woman with bright eyes and a kind smile pushed through the hounds and reached past her master without ceremony to bring through the door. I was under the roof of Baskerville Heights at last.

This kind lady, whom I concluded was Mrs. Hudson, tutted over me and placed me near the fire with a rug over me and a mug of hot brandy and water while she sat with a basket of mending. The hounds settled nearby watchfully, as did their master, who after pacing the stone floor for a few moments quite as though I hadn't entered his home at all, turned and dropped unceremoniously into a great armchair in the shadows, regarding me suspiciously.

"Surely your deductions are prompted by my letter seeking lodgings -- you must have been expecting me since yesterday, sir," I ventured. The brandy-and-water was doing its work. "But I cannot make out how you could have known that I have had the, ah, unfortunate circumstance with a lady that you alluded to. I don't mind telling you that you are quite right, but I cannot tell how you should know of it."

The gentleman, whose Christian name I now knew to be "Sherlock" -- presumably the mysterious "SH" of my letter -- gave a startling grin, showing brilliant teeth in a noble, long-nosed visage, staring at me with keen eyes of a disconcerting pale blue colour.

"Letter? What letter?"

"Mister Sherlock, Dr. Stamford's the man as wrote to us to let Merripit House. Have you already forgotten? You never do attend to your correspondence. You recall signing it, a fortnight ago, when I put it under your nose, I suppose?"

The man grunted a bit, and shrugged. "Don't remember a thing about it. So that's why you come darkening my door. As you see, I know nothing of your blasted letter. But nothing could be simpler, or more obvious. Your cane is quite new, sir, and it bears a little brass plaque, plainly showing it to have been a gift from your colleagues upon leaving St. Barts -- and your watch-chain bears a charm engraved with a heart, encircled with forget-me-nots, and the initials "E.V." in the centre. It is clearly fashioned to contain a miniature portrait of a lady -- but the hinge has been recently broken and I can readily see that the portrait is missing. Quite probably, you broke the charm yourself in the effort to remove the portrait -- yet, you have not discarded the charm despite the fact that it is broken, as it has sentimental associations, which I would advise you to abandon. The event of parting with this lady must have been recent as you have not yet had the opportunity to have the charm repaired although you were in London where you could easily have done so. Now, it is also possible that the lady has recently died, but you are not wearing mourning. In fact, I deduce that by taking this situation in Dartmoor, you lost the affections of this finicking lady whom you had hoped to make your wife, but who disappointed you by refusing to leave the pleasures of London for our tors and moors. Don't trouble to deny it, sir. It is all perfectly clear, even more so by the mawkish expression on your face. Bear up, man, and have more brandy if you must. As I said, I congratulate you on your good fortune!"

Here the insufferable man stopped, took a long draught from his own mug and stomped off to some other part of the house, careless of what response I might make to this staccato dissertation. The dogs followed him.

"Mr Sherlock was right, I'm sure, wasn't he?" Mrs. Hudson said.

I nodded dumbly. The man had plumbed the depths of my simple history, leaving me speechless. But I was determined to conquer my broken heart by hard work in this new place, and it would not make a good start of that project, I thought, to unburden my sorrows to strangers in this cold house.

"It's quite remarkable," I said finally. The man was seemingly a genius to rival any of my famed teachers at St. Barts. "He was perfectly correct in all particulars. Is he always like this?"

"Mister Sherlock is a very remarkable gentleman," she said fondly, and my estimation of the seemingly misanthropic man rose at this good lady's obvious regard for her master.

"I'm sorry about your young lady," she continued. "Disappointment in love is very hard for a man to bear. I'm sure if she wasn't willing to come with you to Dartmoor, you would do better to find another lady who will care for you so much that she will want to stay by your side. No matter what comes."

It seemed to me that Mrs. Hudson was thinking of something other than my own personal tragedy in making this remark, and she stood and looked out the window. It was dark now, and she closed the shutters.

"Snow's coming. I don't know as you can safely get to Merripit House at this hour. But Mr. Sherlock doesn't permit visitors to stay." She regarded me sympathetically.

"Please, madam, you would not be so heartless as to set me back out on the moor in the snow! You'll find my frozen body in the morning, I'm afraid. I'm not a fit man. Medical studies in London do not accustom a man to walking on your moors. Today has nearly done me in! But I expect my new duties in Grimpen will harden me up soon enough."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at me, and I saw that she might let this Mr. Sherlock bark, but would not countenance his bite so easily. "That's the spirit, Dr. Stamford. Take this lamp and follow me. I'll show you a quiet room away from Mr. Sherlock, and I'll bring you up some supper in a bit. He'll not know you're here, and you can walk to Merripit House in the morning. We can send one of the dogs with you to keep you company, if you like. It's a lonely walk, and there have been strange doings on the moors."

I followed Mrs Hudson up a narrow stair to a room at the end of a long corridor. The air was close and the room full of dust and stray leaves from a missing pane in the mullioned window. Mrs. Hudson did her best to tidy the ancient curtained bed, and as promised brought me a hearty plate of mutton, potatoes, bread and cheese, which I devoured gratefully. She left me a candle and admonished me to remain quiet, as Mr. Sherlock was likely to be about his own business even in the middle of the night, and did not brook disturbances in his work.

I wanted to ask what sort of work the brilliant, forbidding gentleman could be doing in this remote house in the middle of the night, but the hardship of my journey and, I confess, the wounds in my heart were weighing me down. I blew out the candle and fell into a sound sleep.

But it was not a healthy sleep, as I was troubled by bad dreams in the night.

It began with a sort of tapping, scratching sound and a vague dream of someone demanding something of me, over and over, which I could not give. I sat bolt up, the hair on my neck prickling as never before. You know me, my dear ---ton, and you know that I am not in any manner a nervous sort of fellow. I watched the snow swirling at the window, listening to my heart beating in my chest, unsure what had awoken me.

No doubt it was the wind, I thought, as it was hissing through the gap made by the missing diamond pane. I thought to pile some books over the space, and approached the window when I started back and knocked over a chair with a crash as a white face stared at me through the window. I had the impression of sorrowful dark eyes in a gaunt, lined face, his silver-gold hair blowing in the wind and dusted with snowflakes.

"It's cold," he said. "Let me in."

I was unsure if I was awake or dreaming, but it was impossible for a living man to be at this window. It looked high above the moor with no visible ledge or parapet for hand or foot to cling to. The snow blew wetly against the window and the vision vanished.

I shook my head for letting bad dreams get the better of me.

I piled some ancient books over the broken place and tried to ignore the snowstorm, but the howling of the wind became positively human, and the fiend at the window returned, seeming to rap at the window with his fist.

"Sherlock, it's John. Let me in the window. It's so cold."

On and on the phantom cried out at the window, rapping and dislodging another pane, which fell and shattered on the floor.

"Let me in, Sherlock," he cried.

I had to admit that this couldn't be the wind and the snow, and the knowledge of this froze my blood, a sensation like no other.

"Shut up, go away, you haunt," I cried, or something like it. "You'll never come in, not if you call for ten years!" You will be amazed, my friend, to hear me so unmanned, but if you had heard what I heard you would not, I think, judge me the worse.

"It's been ten years. I'm come home, Sherlock. Let me in, love."

I scrambled back with a shout and flung open the door, thinking perhaps to ask the master of the house to send a dog out to seek for an intruder, so vivid and real did the pitiful and heart-wrenching pleas of the ghostly man seem to me. There I nearly ran into the person of none other than the master of Baskerville Heights, looking as wild-eyed as I presume I myself was.

"What do you mean by this shouting! You've ruined my work! Who put you in this room?"

He rushed into the room, drawing up the covers on the bed where I had mussed them.

"Mrs. Hudson was kind enough not to send me across the moor in the snowstorm, but she ought to have warned me that this horrible room is haunted!" I was probably shouting back at the man, I was that amazed and, I frankly admit, terrified. "There is a man tapping at the window there. He says he's John, he wants to come inside. He keeps calling for you."

Mr. Sherlock's eyes widened, with terror or hope I could not have said, for he pushed me away and slammed the door against me. I am ashamed to confess to you that I stayed rooted to the spot, listening at the door, quite unable to leave without hearing what he would do. I was rewarded, although that is not a proper term for what happened.

"John! John! Come back! I'm waiting for you, I'm always waiting for you."

I could not credit that this proud man, who was evidently quite heartless, would beg for anything and in such heartbroken tones. I would have to have been made of stone not to weep at the sound of such pain, and I blinked away a tear.

"John! Just let me hear your voice. Once more. Just --"

Here I could no longer hear his words distinctly. There was a great crash of glass, and I knew he had broken the window to get at the phantom.

"--- love you so---" I thought I heard, but that was impossible. Especially as the phantom, if that is what it was, was clearly a man.

The wind and snow were shrieking inside the room, and if Mr. Sherlock heard anything more from the phantom, I couldn't hear it a word more. I was overcome and staggered down the stair to the fire, where I sank insensible in a chair. My eyes did not close for the rest of that long night.

The next day, Mrs. Hudson would tell me nothing in response to my questions about the apparition in the upper bedroom, and her master did not appear at all. However, I saw her disposing of a blood-stained cloth, and presumed he had badly cut himself breaking the window in the night. I offered to give Mr. Sherlock medical attention, but she merely thanked me, and said that no one was as good with an injury as her master was, and they would do well without my own assistance.

Mrs. Hudson gave me one of the dogs to walk me along the path to Merripit House. I was glad of the company, as the place had, as promised, a lonely situation on the moor, but nothing so lonely as Baskerville Heights.

I spent the day putting my things in order -- the coachman had left my box, and I had plenty to occupy myself that first day. But I failed in making myself feel my ordinary cheerful self, and it was not the blow of my break with Miss V. that disturbed my peace.

For that failure, I blame the shock to my nerves from the night I spent in that terrible house, and the unshakeable memory of ghostly John and the master of Baskerville Heights, begging him to return and speak to him once more.

 


	2. He Only Comes in the Storm

 

 

_Extract of Letter from Dr. Michael Stamford, M.R.C.S., to Mr. M---ton, London._

**Baskerville Heights, Grimpen, Dartmoor. 24 December 1845**

. . . Well, you perhaps won't thank me for such a Christmas letter when you've done with it. Before you send a doctor to take me to Bedlam, I assure you I am in perfect possession of my faculties and have had only the smallest tot of mulled wine in celebration of Christmas Eve. (Well, more than a tot but I am not at all drunk. I heartily wish I were.)

I remain, however, uncertain as to the sanity of my reluctant host, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. At times, he quite stuns me with the keenness of his wit, which darts out at one at unexpected times, true and painful as a real dart. Had he entered the medical profession, I am sure he would have been a formidable talent, unlike my humble self. Mr. Holmes issued some recommendations, or rather criticisms (in the most grudging and contemptuous manner conceivable, which I am assured is his manner to everyone) for improving my little store of medicines with tonics of his own devising, apparently from herbs and plants-- tended by Mrs. Hudson-- in some hidden garden about this great derelict house that thus far, I have not glimpsed.

( _n.b._ \-- Grimpen appears to be just about the right sort of town for me, after all.   Gloomy though this little village on the moors is, the people -- excluding the fearsome Mr. Holmes -- have a true sort of kindness and simple decency that is a very welcome change from town, where I was rather a fish out water, despite your kind efforts on my behalf.)

I am prattling. I am still shaken from tonight's events, dear M----ton. I shall try to put my thoughts in order. After praising his brilliance and wit, I shall tell you more about the curious Mr. Sherlock Holmes and why, after tonight, I have my doubts as to his sanity.

It was not a Christmas call that brought me to Baskerville Heights on this Christmas Eve. I am given to understand that Mr. Holmes does not participate in the obligatory social rounds of the gentry, such as it is, in this remote place. The nearest other large house is --- Hall, about which more anon.   I received a note from Mrs. Hudson requesting my attendance at Baskerville Heights, as her master had got a fever and would not stop or rest, but was out on the moors.

Picture, if you will, these snow-covered moors, barren for miles around except for the local tors, or stoney prominences, and the stonier edifice of Baskerville Heights, with only the threads of dark smoke from the chimney pots to show it was not an abandoned old ruin. This time, I had the use of my sturdy pony and cart-- indispensible for my country practice -- and he had a hard go over the track to the house, which had not been cleared. It was near dark when I entered the long avenue of yews, and the hair on my head fair stood up to hear the howling, from an indeterminate distance, of what sounded like a savage dog, or worse, wolf -- although I confess I have never heard a wolf howl in my life, but surely it would sound like this. Dark clouds were skimming fast over the moors, coming in close, and I knew that it would bring a fresh snowstorm.

Mrs. Hudson was more careworn and weary than when first we met, just above a month ago. I asked to see my patient at once so that I could diagnose the cause of his fever and administer what medicines might be best. (I am copying out what unfolded next just as I put it down my diary last night, not an hour after the events, otherwise you will surely accuse me of writing a fairy-tale.)

# # #

"He wouldn't stay - he's gone out on the moors, Doctor Stamford. And there's no one else to go after him. The stable boy has gone home for Christmas, and won't be back until the day after. If Mr. Holmes doesn't come in before dark, with that fever, I'm afraid he'll be -- lost."

"Surely . . . you don't expect me to go out after Mr. Holmes?" I had to raise my voice as the winds were rising up fast from the moors, howling against the windows as strongly as I remembered from my last visit, when I was sure I heard a phantom at the window, begging Mr. Holmes to let him in. And Mr. Holmes, raving, begging "John" to return.

Here I confess I felt nothing more than a, well -- coward, and you will not doubt agree. But the truth is that I know very little about these wild moors and have no interest in enlarging my experience. My patient rounds take me about the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow. There are few roads, tolerable well-marked, and they most of them do not cross the moors -- and those that do, one is warned to stay well off of. Other than Grimpen, the only other villages in these parts are Fernworthy and Coombe Tracey, with barely a hundred souls between them. I was in Coombe Tracey yesterday.   The old shopkeeper in the High Street warned me, with the grave tones of an ancient oracle, to "keep away from the moors" on my way home.

But Mrs. Hudson merely shook her head in a sad and resigned manner. "No, Doctor Stamford. That I do not. Your pony could perhaps follow after, but the cart would be broken up on the stones or sucked down into the Great Grimpen Mire. You're an outcomer, and will only be lost yourself. Mr. Holmes has been roaming these moors since he was a wee scrap of a lad. And he's taken the dogs, thank God. But for all that, he's in no fit state and won't think of himself -- until it's too late."

"I shall wait up for him, of course," I declared stoutly.

"I've left a candle in every window," Mrs. Hudson said. "Come, sit you by the fire."

And so I sat in a great chair, ancient but quite comfortable, tattered red brocade with a bit of old plaid blanket across the back by the sides of the huge fireplace, tall enough that a man could sit in the stone seats inside. Opposite, dark and imposing as its master, stood a high hooded chair of dark oxblood-coloured leather, studded with old brass nails that gleamed pleasingly in the firelight. The blackened stone mantelpiece was wreathed for the season, cheerfully enough, with boughs of holly and mistletoe, and a few fragrant stems of rosemary.   Mrs. Hudson had prepared a cauldron of mulled wine, in which floated apples studded with cloves. I breathed deep of that charming holiday fragrance, feeling guilty for indulging in such a pleasure while the master of the house was ill and apparently in some peril.

Mrs. Hudson poured us each a glass.

"I'm sorry you have to come out on such a night, and Christmas, too. I was that afraid you'd gone back to London, Doctor. Bless you for coming."

"I can only hope I am able to do Mr. Holmes some good. Where do you get your greens for Christmas?" The land about Baskerville Heights was barren of all but long moor grasses, rocks, and the occasional wizened tree clinging to life, bent against the winds.

"I used to gather them myself. Now my hip has such an ache, especially in winter. I send Billy -- the stable boy as is gone home -- to Fernworthy Wood to gather them. Mr. Holmes's doesn't care for Christmas, you know, but I told him I would leave this house if he didn't let me keep to the old ways."

Her eyes had a lively twinkle for a moment, but we both froze at the sudden savage baying, seemingly right at the window. It sounded as if one of the dogs had run mad and was trying to break in through the glass. I almost dropped my cup.

"What is that? Is it Mr. Holmes with the dogs?   That dog sounds -- " I couldn't quite describe it, but Mrs. Hudson regarded me gravely.

"It's not the master," she said. "Nor his dogs neither."

"Some local farmer's dog, then -- diseased, it sounds . . ." I stood, to do what I did not know. I had some vague thought of trying to bar the windows.

Mrs. Hudson looked even more frightened than I felt, but she did not shrink from the horrible sound.

"No. It will pass. It does not want us."

The snarling indeed was growing fainter.

"Good God, what is it?"

"It is the Hound. I learned the story at my grandmother's knee when I was small. But you are a doctor and a learned gentleman. You might like to read about it."

The good lady stood up, wincing at the pain in her hipbones, and withdrew an ebony box from a tall secretary against the wall.

"Here. Take care, it is a very old document of the Holmes family."

I opened the box, withdrew the yellowed old parchment, untied the black ribbon, and began to read.

# # #

_**YEAR of our LORD 165-.  Affidavit of the Hon. Lord Roderick Quincey, Magistrate.** _

This affidavit being sworn this day to put the facts in their proper order, and to make a record of these strange events, so that no one may question my judgment or indeed, my sanity hereafter.  This past 24th day of December, the eve of our Lord's nativity, I attended a grand feast at Baskerville Heights in honour of the holy day.  All the principal men of the district were there, and not a few of lesser repute as well, from miles around.  

Sir Sherrinford Baskerville was esteemed for the bounty of his table and free flowing wine, as much as he struck fear into the hearts of men for his terrible temper.  On this night, Sir Baskerville was in a particularly wrathful mood, and was near to drowning in his cups. His valet, a handsome young man who had come, it was said, penniless to the Baskerville household from some distant family connexion in Scotland, had instigated his master's ire, with the infamous result as I shall tell.  Baskerville's companions were much amazed at his rough treatment of the valet, as he was a sort of favorite of Baskerville's, who otherwise treated all men, regardless of their estate, with equal contempt.  At supper, Mr. Hugo Holmes, Baskerville's cousin, advised me that the valet had given his notice and was marrying a girl from a farm in the next parish.  

Baskerville grew wilder and more furious by the hour, until 2 o'clock in the morning when finally his temper broke as he spied the valet with his box packed, making ready to cross the moor for his betrothed's farm for Christmas Day.  

"If ye cross that threshold, I'll have the dogs on you," he cried, to rousing cheers of his drunken companions.   But the valet was brave and did not cower nor flatter his master, although afterward men said he had a tear in his eye.

"Ye gave your word, my Lord. I'm taking my leave, by your grace or no. It's past time, and I'm no slave."

So it was that the valet went out into the dreadful snow in the darkest hour. Baskerville seemed quiet for at time, but roused himself and called his rabble-- they could not be truly called any man's friend -- to horse. Despite the protests of better men, of which I claim to have been party, Baskerville would not be gainsaid. The men rode out of Baskerville Heights and over the moor, with Baskerville's pack of hounds darting after them.

Only one man, a certain Mr. George, returned that night. Terrible to tell, he perished before Christmas Day passed, but not before he asked most piteously to impart his tale to myself, being the Magistrate in these parts, and this is what he related, in great distress and extremity of body and spirit:

Baskerville, his men and hounds pursued the valet's track along the shortest path-- across the moor through the Great Grimpen Mire, which even in winter is a treacherous, ever-changeable salt-march which can suck down a horse, a hound, or a man. There are various great rocks called tors in that district, and that is where Baskerville's hounds ran the valet to ground, where the benighted man was sheltering against the snow. Baskerville cruelly ordered the largest and fiercest of his dogs, a huge brute, to dispatch the valet as it would a stag or boar. Baskerville's servants told me afterward that the hounds were gentle as lambs with the valet, yet the beast obeyed its master. (Which proves, the people now whisper, that Baskerville and his hound were bewitched, despite the holiness of the night. It is also told that Christmas Eve is the night that animals may speak, which also seems more a devilish trick than the grace of Our Lord.)

In his extremity, the valet cursed Baskerville (for they say that his grandmother was a Scottish witch who was burned at the stake by His Majesty's witch-finders ), that he and all his line would be forever cursed by the coldness of their hearts, never to be granted the balm of love, and that the hound that took his life's blood this night would return to hunt and devour without pity any Baskerville who attempted to break his curse. With that, the valet perished of his terrible wounds. Baskerville, Mr. George said, seemed instantly to wake to himself as if he had been in a dream-- or possessed as some indeed have whispered-- and pulled the valet's ravaged body into his arms with wailing that was most pitiful to hear, begging the valet to wake and forgive him. At this sign of rare gentleness by Baskerville, Mr. George related with eyes staring out of his head from terror, the great hound turned upon its master, and as if by his own command, leaped upon him, and tore out his throat. The other men ran terrified from the tor. Two were found on the moor, their bodies savaged by Baskerville's hound, and three ran mad into the Great Grimpen Mire and were lost.

His tale finished and his strength at its end, Mr. George begged for the priest to be brought so that he might be shriven, but the snow was storming mightily on Christmas Day, and the priest was too late.

_Attested this 30th Day of December, 16--, that the above stated matters be true before God, of my own knowledge and as related to me by persons of the household of Baskerville Heights and the vicinity of Grimpen, and Mr. Albert George, now deceased, may God have mercy on his soul and all those who perished on the moor this past Christmas._

_By this my hand and seal,_

_\----  Hon. Roderick Marius Beauchamp Mortimer Quincey, Magistrate_

**Addendum:**

**30th Day of December, 167-**

I append to my hereinabove testament that Sir Bruce Baskerville perished on this past Christmas Eve, full twenty years after the death of his uncle Sir Sherrinford Baskerville. He was to be married after a long engagement to a young lady he had met in London, a love match it was said. Sir Bruce Baskerville was heard shouting for his men to bring the dogs into the house to stop their howling, and was seen to go out into the long yew alley very late that night, despite the approach of a storm over the moor. When Sir Baskerville did not return, the men of the house went to seek for him, and found his cloak torn and bloodied at the end of the yew alley, but no other sign of him.

I was summoned to question all the household concerning this strange event, but found no one who knew of any reason he should have gone out on the moor. Nor did any other person within Baskerville Heights see the dogs that troubled their master that night, as the truth is that Baskerville's hounds were shut up in the house against the cold, and it could not have been those creatures that Baskerville heard howling outside the house.

Sir Bruce Baskerville is presumed dead, and the lady he was to marry has returned to her family in London. Sir Bruce Baskerville being without issue, the direct Baskerville line at long last fails, and the estate goes to a distant cousin by the name of Holmes. I have written this gentleman and enclosed a copy of this my affidavit, and begged him, in the strongest terms, not to come to Baskerville Heights. May God have mercy on his house, and all of us.

_\--  R. M. Quincey, Magistrate_

# # #

I was positively enveloped in cold that chilled me down to my bones as I folded the ancient manuscript away again. Mrs. Hudson poured me another cup of steaming mulled wine.

"Surely this magistrate must have been, well -- in the grip of a delusion, a gullible man prey to ghost stories told at Christmas," I said, as calmly as I could manage. For the truth was that this tale seemed to me all too true.   This magistrate had not seemed to add any superfluous matter to increase the dramatic import of his story. To the contrary, although his was a very horrifying story, it was rather plainly told.

And I had slept in Baskerville Heights, and knew what I had heard. And what I was afraid I was hearing tonight.

"I take it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is descended from Sir Bruce Baskerville's cousins, the Holmeses mentioned in this document?"

"Just so. The Holmeses have been masters of Baskerville Heights since that time. But Mr. Sherlock does not seem set to marry ever, and has no heir. He has an elder brother, Mr. Mycroft who is himself a great officer of the law in London, who may yet marry and have a son to carry on the line," Mrs. Hudson seemed somehow doubtful of this, however.

"Surely they don't refrain from marriage because of --- well, this curse, as the document says. Surely they don't believe such a thing." I laughed to stop the shivering, and drank more of the warm, spiced wine.  I do not believe that Mrs Hudson was deceived. She seems a woman of keen observation, much like her master. "And Holmes seems to me to be a highly educated gentleman, I cannot imagine him entertaining such a notion."

"I could not presume to say as to that," Mrs. Hudson retorted. "But you are right, Mr. Sherlock studied at Oxford, and has a great library here filled with books he procures from all over the world."

We were quiet for a time, both listening for the howling of the unseen beast -- hound, I was sure of it -- prowling around the walls of the house.

"I really can't let Mr. Holmes stay out there, all alone, with a fever," I said recklessly. I really had had much more wine than I was accustomed to. Also, Mrs. Hudson may have added something a bit stronger than wine to the cauldron. "I'm going out after him."

Mrs. Hudson took my arm, her hand most firm for a lady so seemingly delicate. "That you must not. It isn't safe."

"He's looking for -- he's looking for John, isn't he?" I threw out in a heedless rush. "The ghost I heard --- that first night. I know now -- I wasn't imagining it."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes suddenly glittered with unspilled tears. "Yes. He is looking for John. He'll never stop looking."

"But why tonight, of all nights? The storm is terrible, I can't bear to think of him out in it, and with that terrible animal -- hound --- howling like that -- my God, it's the hound, Baskerville's hound, from the affidavit, isn't it? That's what you all think?"

"The Hound always comes for the heirs of the Baskervilles. But Mr. Sherlock believes he must go out tonight, you see. To find. . . John."

"But--  why?"

"Because," Mrs. Hudson said softly, the tears falling now across her cheeks, "he only comes in the storm."

 

 


	3. Childermass

**Dr Stamford’s Diary**

_29 December 1845_

Mrs Hudson tells me I was nearly out of my mind with fever for some hours after going onto the moor to pursue Mr Holmes on Christmas Eve. She was a diligent nurse, and tells me with no attempt at nicety that she feared I would die. I feel almost well again now, though.

I have no memory of that night save pushing on unsteady legs through high snow and violent winds in the dark. Mrs Hudson did not spare me the humiliation of informing me that I had proceeded no more than one quarter-mile from the gate.

God be thanked that Mr. Holmes was saved! A shepherd either too hardened or too foolhardy to mind the snow-storm was crossing the moor to visit his parent’s hut for Christmas Day, and came upon Mr Holmes, seemingly dead in a snowbank at the gates of Ravenscroft Grange, a manor-house which Mrs Hudson reckons is five miles across the moor from Baskerville Heights. The shepherd found him by his lantern which he had dropped, but by fortunate circumstance had not been extinguished.

I refused to be prevented from attending Mr. Holmes as soon as I myself regained my wits, but he is cold and silent and will not answer any questions concerning his rash venture or the terrible hound we heard outside the Hall.

He did, however, question me closely once more about the apparition, “John,” that called at my window. I told him that I no longer believed I had heard or seen anything more than fancies, stirred up by my long journey and the strange house, which is the truth. At his he nodded, very pale and stern, but I thought too that he wished I had said otherwise, and that it hurt him to hear me say this.

What drove Mr Holmes to the gates of Ravenscroft Grange? Mrs. Hudson will say nothing but that the Grange has been abandoned for many a year, and that he could not have expected any living soul to admit him there.

# # #

Mrs. Hudson has asked me to stay the week for the festivities. There was a nativity play tonight, rather gruesome as it depicted the killing of babies by King Herod. Not at all to my taste. I had thought Christmas caroling out in the countryside, with shepherds and apple orchards about, would be a cheerful affair. I was quite wrong. The Christmas festivities at Baskerville Hall are as grim as the place itself.

I did not think Mr. Holmes would be well enough to attend but he was there, dressed in a fine suit with a green velvet coat, watching the play with every sign of fascination. I would swear I saw a tear in his eye during one of the ghastly carols. He is clearly unwell. He drank far too much wine for a man in his condition, and would not take my advice on that score -- or any other.

# # #

I met an interesting gentleman at the gathering, one Professor Moriarty. He is an ornithologist. Dartmoor seems a strange place for such pursuits. I told him that I had seen no birds but ravens here, to which he replied that there was much to see if one looked closely but that he didn’t advise it, as the moor was a very dangerous place to the unwary.

Professor Moriarty was accompanied by his half-sister, Miss Mary Morstan. A handsome woman, if rather taciturn. But I am far from being at all interested in the ladies, remind myself that it was to forget all that I came to Grimpen.

In any event I am certain it is Mrs Hudson’s worry for Mr. Holmes that makes her wish me to stay. She knows I have decided not to return to London for the holiday and am alone at Merripit House. And there will be another play next week, and more festivities at the Hall for the occasion-- such as they are. I must take care that no one sees this diary because I sound quite the London prig, which I know in my heart I am not. I will endeavor to enjoy the season here in the manner as it has, no doubt, been observed for many years.

However, since Mr Holmes refuses my care as a physician I fail to see how I may be of any real aid. Yet I feel bound to do my best unless Mr. Holmes expressly dismisses me, which to my surprise, he has not.

# # #

The charm of the holiday visit has definitely waned. Baskerville Heights has a cold spirit that even Christmas cannot lift. I am weary of this room with its dark paneled walls, mouldy-smelling draperies and dreary view of the snow-covered moor, relieved by the dark stones that jut up like broken teeth.

There is a shelf bearing a few books, A Pilgrim’s Progress and others too stern for my mood, for which I ought to be ashamed, I suppose. I dropped a dull picture book and in making to pick it up, discovered a crack in the paneling behind the bookshelf. My efforts made the crack fall open.

I found a small green book there. It has obviously been deliberately hidden behind the paneling some time ago. It is covered with cobwebs and dust, and the pages are nearly bound together from the damp. But I put it before the fire for a bit, and am able to open it.

The pages are covered with handwriting in a large, careful hand. The ink is speckled with dark marks and is very faded. On the front page is the inscription, “John Hamish Watson.” The name strikes me but I cannot not say why. “John” is a common enough name.

With nothing better to occupy myself, I rested against the pillows, wrapped myself in a blanket (kindly provided by Mrs Hudson), and began to read.

# # #

**_Diary of John Watson_ **

_8 November, 1834_

_This is the second time I am writing out my private thoughts in a book._

_My first diary was a gift from Mr Holmes. But Mycroft discovered it and must have read it, because I found the red leather cover burned in the fire. I did not see him do it, but it cannot have been anyone else. Apart from Mr Holmes, nobody but him and Mr Sherlock can read in this house._

_Mycroft is always watching me, as though I would steal the family silver. As if I would ever touch a single penny belonging to the family!_

_I am afraid I was too honest in the red book. I will take more care of this one and will hide it so that no one can find it. It does me good to write things down._

_I used to think that Mycroft had some secret reason for watching me, and invented all manner of stories for why this should be: that I was the lost heir of a great family, who would one day discover me hidden at Baskerville Heights and take me home; and best of all, I would be allowed to take Mr. Sherlock with me as my companion. What a ridiculous fancy this ~~is~~ was. Nobody ever comes to Baskerville Heights._

_I don’t believe anyone in the great world beyond the moor knows that Baskerville Heights exists._

_This book is a gift from Sherlock. He has sworn revenge against his brother for burning my red book. But I should not have told him. It is not safe to set Mr. Mycroft against us._

_Tonight I will make him ride with me to the tors, and I will try to make him understand._

# # #

**Sherlock Holmes’s Diary**

_~~28~~ 29 December, 1845, midnight_

I am finally alone. Another minute more and my head would burst.

I do not care for spirits, but it was an obligation of the day and my duties as master of the Hall (will Mycroft ever come up from town again?) that I drink the mulled wine, and I took more than I ought. I feel dizzy and sick, I curse myself. I must to go out again tonight, yet I am so miserably weak that I can scarcely hold my pen. A lesson that the body as well as the mind must be kept pure if one wishes it to perform as one requires.

Mrs. Hudson tried to check me _(n.b. must make amends.)_

Looking out, I see the clouds are speeding their way over the moor and it looks to be a fair bright moon.

I will, I must, go out again.

Today -- or rather, yesterday as the clock is striking twelve -- was Childermass Day. I find the perpetual observation of holy days, saints’ days, and feast days to be a great waste of time that ought to be spent more profitably, by which I do not mean the getting of money but of the highest use of men’s time, the one gift we can never get more of, and of which there is never enough.

I write at this hour merely to occupy my mind until I am certain that all of the folk who visited the Hall tonight are safely home in their beds.

One hour more, and I will go out again. I must.

# # #

Of these miserable festivals, Childermass is the grimmest of all. As I am in grim spirits, for once I and the day were in accord. I am no religious scholar but as mentioned, we had a play for Childermass, the curious history of which I will set down. It was the first playing in over three hundred years of the Grimpen Pageant, an ancient “mystery play.” It was play-acted by the Grimpen and High Barrow Players: the tale of King Herod heard tell of the coming of the Christ child in Bethlehem, who would be King of the Jews. To keep his throne, the bloodthirsty monarch ordered all the male infant children of that town murdered.

The script of the Grimpen Pageant was discovered quite recently by Mr. Simon Rowe, who calls himself an antiquary. This occupation apparently requires the deep study of ancient buildings, books, papers, and assorted works of art, to no practical purpose.

The Pageant text was found amongst some old papers in the attic of one of the local farms, and the farmer sold them to Rowe, and the story spread through the parishes like fire. A deputation was dispatched to request that the thing be played at Baskerville at Christmas, as was evidently the custom in those distant times, according to local legend.

# # #

I was skeptical of Mr. Rowe’s claim. I do not know the man-- his story was made known to us by letter enclosed to the local priest, Reverend Custance. Our family has never been known to be religious; to the contrary, we are universally thought in the district to be devoted to the devil.

Hence I searched our own papers for any evidence that the “mystery play” had ever been connected with the Baskervilles or the Hall.

Most of the books in the library are dry-as-dust volumes of no redeeming interest -- tracts concerning sheep and tin-mining, religious tomes, records of law cases. But I was inclined to solve this petty mystery. There is absolutely nothing to occupy my mind in Grimpen in the deep of winter. And so, with not a little effort, I found a book of accounts of the year 1542, recording payment of “ _2s 1d for devils heads and other necessary thyngs for the Players’ clothyng.”_

I then discovered the diary of an ancient kinsman, one Reverend Horace Baskerville who was rector of Grimpen Parish. In those days, the rector resided at the rectory on grounds of the park. Both it and the chapel are vacant and unused now for many years. We used to play there.

When I was eight years old, Mycroft locked me into the old chapel overnight on All Hallows Eve. . . .and John saved me.

It is half past midnight. I see a few lights still on the moor.

I will wait a bit longer.

# # #

I am straying far from my point. The fever has evidently affected my faculties. Doctor Stamford advises me to remain in bed, with a fire at all times, for a week. The man does not know me at all.

My researches satisfied me that there was indeed an old custom of this “mystery play” being performed at Baskerville Hall. Reverend Horace’s diary relates of Sir Sherrinford Baskerville, author of our infamous (ludicrous) family curse:

_“he kept a bountifull houwse at Christmass, for then he had his lords of misrule and tall fellowes in his livery play the Mysteryes, of Herod and the slain babes, and the Three Magick Kings of the East.”_

Once I admitted that there was indeed some connexion with this house and the Grimpen Pageant, Mycroft was all in favour (he did love play-acting as a child), and dispensed ten pounds for the making of the costumes -- a sum I thought outrageous until I saw the devils and angels, Pharisees and shepherds, truly wonderfully made, all by our local people.

Tonight (or rather last night) was the Play of the Childermass, the feast day of the Holy Innocents. On Epiphany the players will return to give the Play of the Three Magic Kings. We have not observed the Twelve Days of Christmas since I was a very little boy, apart from Mrs Hudson’s famous Twelfth Cake.

The “Mystery Play” has few lines; it is like a pantomime. The play was written centuries ago to entertain and inspire the faith of the people of these moors in darker times. Therefore when Herod and his soldiers search for the innocent babes, the mothers flee to hide their children in mock tin mines, made specially for the play. They fail in their desperate effort, however, as we all know.

I cannot put one of the songs from my mind. It keeps on, I wish it would stop. I will write the words to the song: the three women of Bethlehem, grieving for their slain children. Perhaps that will banish it.

 _Lully, lulla, thou little tiny child,_  
_Bye bye, lully, lullay thou little tiny child,_  
_Bye bye, lully, lullay!_

 _O sisters too, how may we do_  
_For to preserve this day_  
_This poor youngling for whom we do sing_  
_Bye bye, lully, lullay?_

 _Herod, the king, in his raging,_  
_Charged he hath this day_  
_His men of might in his own sight_  
_All young children to slay,—_

 _That woe is me, poor child, for thee,_  
_And ever more and may_  
_For thy parting neither say nor sing,_  
_Bye bye, lully, lullay._

It is a blood-chilling tune, not at all in the spirit of Christmas cheer. The players were our local people: tradesmen, farmers, sheepherders, and miners. More than a few of the women wept.

And yet I would rather the tune stay fixed in my mind than to hear John’s voice, calling for me.

I will not say, “John’s ghost.”

It is not rational to chase after haunts. There is no case for the spirit world that I find persuasive, and it will require evidence of a much stronger quality than the hints and speculations published thus far to make me believe otherwise.

I must be going mad, then.

Still, it was John’s voice, I know it. But it has been ten long, dreary years -- would I know his voice now?

The last of the lanterns have vanished over the hill.

There is shouting below.

# # #

 _in haste_ \-- a farmer returning home discovered the body of a man on the moor. He is almost mute with fright, but says there are marks of violence on the corpse. In Mycroft’s absence, the duties of High Sheriff, or parish constable, fall upon me.

If the man was murdered, the villain may still be out on the moor. I am waiting only for the boy to bring my horse. I have the dogs.

Yet-- I wish I could delay this duty. I cannot believe it was the fever only that caused me to hear his voice. Stamford heard it too, I do not believe his denials. Neither does he, I can read his face.

My horse is ready.


	4. The Wild Hunt

**Letter from Mycroft Holmes, Esq. to Mrs. Martha Hudson**

_The Diogenes Club_

_30 December 1845_

I have been in considerable distress since receiving your letter. I wish I could leave for Baskerville Hall at once, but I must answer to obligations greater even than family.

Do all you can to keep Sherlock at home, and quiet. I expressly forbid that he should be out on the moor -- it has always been a perilous place, and by that I do not mean to say I take the smallest heed of our family legend.

I am most dismayed to learn that after so long a time, my brother’s mind has become fixed again on John Watson. I cannot bear that Sherlock should fall to wandering in his wits once more, pursuing his malignant spectre. The blackguard has caused Sherlock nothing but grief, and worse-- is it too much to ask that death should have put an end to it?

Again, I forbid that he should go out on the moor-- particularly for so light a cause as to gaze upon the corpse of some dead shepherd-- who no doubt lost his footing upon the rocks or fell into the mire-- or if there was some malicious act, it is a local quarrel, best left to the villagers to hunt down the culprit (who is no doubt known to them) and have him bound over for the assizes.

I am enclosing a note for Sherlock, expressing my direction that he remain within the Hall until I am come.

If he fails in the smallest particular, send word to me here at once.

MH

 

# # #

 

_30 December 1845_

_Sherlock Holmes’ Diary_

Yesterday I examined the body of the man on the moor. He was found broken against the rocks in a crevasse at the foot of one of the lesser tors, to the south-east of the Hall and north of Fernworthy Wood.

I was grateful for the snow, which preserved the body. I made the men affix a rope harness about me and I descended into the crevasse.

By his dress he was one of our local shepherds, but his face was destroyed in the fall. However, one of the men of the party recognised the leather purse which he usually wore about his waist, but which I had found on the rocks some distance from the crevasse. It contained a few shillings, seemingly proof that the man had not been robbed, or that if he was, whatever had been taken from his purse was not money.  
Thus the man was identified: Gerry Brunton.

The peculiar feature upon the body, which caused the men to fall into childish fears, was the presence of a number of deep wounds on the man’s legs, arm and throat. These were not made by the rocks. There was a small quantity of blood from the wounds, but almost none on the rocks themselves-- save where he had struck his head, a grave wound that would in my judgment have caused his death even absent the other wounds.

I examined the wounds closely, measuring their length and depth with an instrument of my own devising. I could reach no other conclusion but that the marks were made by the teeth of a large, carnivorous animal.

The difficulty lies in that there are no such beasts on the moor.

The width of the animal’s bite makes it seemingly impossible that they could have been made by any of the local dogs. The wolfhounds of Baskerville Hall are the largest in the county. None of them have a bite half so large. The dogs were with me which enabled me to verify this on the spot.

Some of the men muttered about a wolf, which I reminded them was impossible as the last wolves on Dartmoor were killed 100 years ago.

I inquired whether there had been any traveling gypsies lately, as they sometimes keep trained bears. None had been seen.

“I saw it, sir, last night. The moon was ever so bright,” one of the men declared. “It was a great black beast. I saw it on the tor, as clear as I see you now.”

I asked him what he meant by “beast.” The folk about these parts are full of superstition. “Are you quite certain it wasn’t a bear?” (Note - I must make further inquiries concerning gypsies, as that would be a likely cause of such enormous bites.)

His answer was what I expected and feared.

# # #

“It was the Hound, sir. Begging your pardon. We don’t like to speak its name in your honour’s presence, sir. But --I’m sure you’ll be knowing what I am about. It weren’t no bear.”

Upon close inspection of the man’s garments, I discovered a few black hairs, several inches long, shining and very thick. Similar hairs were clutched in the man’s hand. I could not ascertain whether it was dog’s hair or that of some other animal-- possibly a black goat, certainly not that of a black sheep, neither of which could of course have made the savage bite marks on Brunton’s body.

The men agreed with me that there were no known dogs in the district with such a long, dark coat.

“The animal, whatever it was, didn’t kill this man.”

“Begging yer pardon, sir, but he’s been mauled to death by some great-- well, hound, we can all see that,” one of the men argued, garnering grim nods all around. The men seemed almost eager to believe in the Hound.

“No. The bite wounds were inflicted after death. They are bloody, but there is no significant bleeding from any of these bites. If the man had been living, the blood would have flowed very copiously from the wound at the throat in particular. It was the fall into the crevasse, his head striking the rock on the way down, that killed him. The question is, what was he doing here? His flock is nowhere to be seen.”

Indeed we had not seen a single sheep since leaving the Hall.

“Gerry would have brought them in to the farm, another storm is coming sure,” one of the men said. “Mebbe he was rounding up the stragglers.”

“Perhaps.”

It began to snow, most inconveniently as it threatened to spoil any tracks by which we could follow the animal.

I had had the foresight to order the men to bring what arms they had, thinking that we might hunt the murderer. I was armed with my own hunting rifle, made for me in London by my father as a present for my eighteenth birthday, which is ten years past, but seems a century.

# # #

I have hardly touched my rifle, or even looked on it, since that day. John thought it the most handsome thing he had ever seen, with its engraving of the family arms in bronze, and fine burlwood.

 _“I would have much preferred the new Gould’s Improved Pocket Microscope,”_ I said when John and I were alone in the stables.

John smiled, that quiet smile that gave me warmth where there had always been none, save for him.

 _“You are ungrateful, then. You should appreciate your father’s generosity. It is . . . a rare beauty.”_ His eyes shone. “ _It was made for you. And you need to learn to shoot better.”_

I was quite aware that my skill with a rifle was childlike when compared with John’s. John was always by far the better shot, in truth better than any man in the whole of Dartmoor.

I once attempted to defend my miserable aim by claiming that he was gifted with natural talent. He scoffed.

 _“I don’t have a thing in the world but that I didn’t work hard for,”_ he replied, his tone gentle as it only ever was with me, or the horses.

Although he never asked-- John never asked me for anything, but one thing I was too much a fool and coward to give-- I gladly let John take the gun so that he might practice with it as he liked. But my father found it in his room, and returned it to me with a cold look, ordering me to take better care of my things.

No accusation was made, but when I saw the shadow in John’s face, I quizzed him until he would answer me. John would only say that my father had begun to treat him with suspicion such as had not been there before. I could plainly see that this hurt his pride very much, but unlike me, who will argue even the most seeming trifling point to death, John would never speak in his own defence.

Somehow I knew that Mycroft was to blame.

# # #

To return to the matter of the dead man, I attempted to track the animal, but the ground about the foot of the tor was stony and near frozen. I perceived a few small spots of blood leading from the body, spattered in a northerly direction. But the snow covered whatever else we might have found, and the dogs lost the scent within a few yards of the crevasse.

Chilled to the bone, the men began to threaten to return to their homes to protect themselves from the Hound, as I heard them whispering amongst themselves.

“In my brother’s absence I am the High Sheriff, and you are bound to aid me,” I declared with as much authority as I could summon. My brother is far better at such proclamations than I am, and I would in truth far prefer to work alone. But I still required the men’s assistance.

I ordered the men to accompany me to the New House Inn to shelter from the snow and to procure a cart to remove the body of Gerry Brunton from the crevasse and deliver it to his people in Fernworthy for burial, an order that they readily obeyed.

# # #

After the men had restored themselves with the Inn’s famous pies and ale, I asked the man that had seen the animal, Roger Dunn, to draw a picture of what he had seen. I gave him my book and pencil. He was puzzled.

“Draw, sir? I can neither draw nor read sir, begging your pardon.”

I tried to coax the man into describing the animal in more detail so that I might attempt to sketch it myself, but he was closed-mouthed and would say no more.

As I sat by the fire to compose these notes, an old man, bent over with age, shuffled to the chair opposite and sat without waiting my invitation.

“You can’t help them as is dead,” he said, puffing acrid smoke from a pipe. “But you might still try to help Dunn here. Though, mind, there’s naught to be done for him neither, probably.”

“Shut up, ye old looney,” said the publican. “Leave Mr Holmes in peace and don’t be yammering on with yer foolish fairy stories.”

The old man shrugged and made to leave, but I bid him stay. “It’s quite all right, please stay. Is there something you want to tell me?”

I have found that people will tell you the most remarkable and unexpected things in response to this straightforward question.

“Don’t you be talking of me,” Dunn said.

The old man shook his head. “Then I won’t. But you’re all old enough to know the old tale. The man as you found dead out by the tor, he saw the Wild Hunt. Old Crockern and his Wisht-Hounds.”

His deep-set eyes gleamed out at the men, and they fell silent. Indeed, they knew the old tale well. As did I. I heard it from Mrs. Hudson when I was but five years old, and John was eight, and we swore if either of us ever saw the Wild Hunt pass, we would try to follow it, and to protect each other from the evil result that was said to always follow to anyone who saw it.

“Aye, Old Crockern, that old devil, grey like the rock of the tors, eyes dark as peat water, leading his wicked Wisht-Hounds over the moor on his ghostly hunt. Them as do see the Wild Hunt pass are sure to die that very same day.”

The men murmured amongst themselves and drew apart from Roger Dunn, who stared about, looking pale. The publican gave him another cup of ale. He drained it in a long swallow.

“I didn’t see no Old Crockern. I saw but a single creature, huge and black it was, up on the tor. Like I said. But it weren’t running with no Wild Hunt.”

“Ah, well, then, I see ye know best,” the old man replied, packing his pipe with more of his foul-smelling tobacco, the style of which I could not readily identify. (Note - I must obtain a portion for my study of types of tobacco and tobacco-ash.)

I saw that despite his attempt at bravado, if that is what it was, Dunn was in truth terrified.

“Come back with me to Baskerville Hall,” I said. “I should like to ask you more questions about . . .the circumstances of the finding of the body. For my report. I shall see you safe home to your farm in the morning.”

Dunn readily agreed, and I hired the Inn’s coach to take us back to the Hall.

# # #

The road was treacherous with ice, and the driver decreed he would take the longer road. So it was that we passed the gates of Ravenscroft Grange, where I had been found insensible on Christmas Eve. I still remembered nothing about that night save John’s voice, calling for me.

Or it might have been the wind in the snowstorm.

“Stop here a moment.”

The driver grumbled that it would soon be dark, and the snow was falling fast.

I took one of the lamps and passed through the gates, as I must have tried to do on Christmas Eve. The Grange has been abandoned for many years, and the grounds have gone wild. The windows stare out like black unblinking eyes. They are quite empty. There was no a sound but the wind.

I was about to return to the coach when a familiar colour drew my eye. On a begrimed marble statute that with its matching companion marked the entrance to the hall, there was a small, but distinctly rust-coloured, irregular stain.

I held the lamp closer.

It was a blood stain.

Not terribly fresh, but neither was it terribly old. Although it seemingly could have nothing to do with the death of Gerry Brunton, as we were several miles from the cevasse where he fell to his death, the presence of relatively fresh blood in a place which was to all appearances deserted was a suspicious circumstance.

Of course it might not be human blood. It might be the blood of some animal that had died here.

Five feet from the ground.

There was nothing for it but to go inside. The front door of course was closed fast, the old lock undoubtedly rusted.

The last time I had been inside Ravenscroft Grange, John Watson had been with me. I knew a secret entrance.


	5. Upon Hound Tor

_John Watson’s Diary_

_9 November 1834_

It is a strange day at Baskerville Heights.

Mr. Holmes is come from London unexpectedly, and shut himself up in the library. No one, not even Mrs. Hudson, knows the reason for his premature visit— for he had not been expected up from town for a fortnight, as Mrs. Hudson confided to me as she was passing with a steaming coffee-pot.

When he is in residence at The Heights, Mr. Holmes’ usual occupations are riding, hunting, and drinking, and I have often heard it said in the village that he is a proper squire, after the old Baskerville type. I, of course, have my own cause to believe him good and kind to the bottom of his soul, and do not like the Baskerville allusion to taint the name of Holmes.

* *

Mr. Holmes has remained closed up in the library all day. This is cause for whispering amongst the servants, which I ignore. Mycroft always notices if I should exchange words with any of them, and gives me a significant nod, as though to say I have found my proper level.

* *

It is just five o’clock, but seems as if it was the witching hour. The windows are black with the hastening of nightfall over the Heights. A pinch-faced gentleman in a black suit and carrying a document box arrived just half an hour past, in a coach drawn by horses as plain and black as the man’s attire, so that the effect was that the man, coach and horses were disgorged whole by the night itself. (Something in the mood of Baskerville Heights is giving me strange fancies tonight. I shall strike this out in the morning, I think.)

Mrs Hudson kindly brought me a tray with a mug of coffee and a thick slice of seed cake, and whispered that the man in black was Mr. Holmes’s lawyer from Essex.

“They say as the old Mr. Baskerville used to be all for will-shaking,” she said as she hastened to fill another pot for the gentlemen. “Perhaps Mr. Holmes is inclined in that way, now.”

I had nothing to say to this, and told her, truthfully, that it was no business of mine. I have been brought up at Baskerville Heights by the grace of Mr. Holmes who, visiting a remote family connexion while in Scotland on an affair of business, took up my orphaned self, aged four, and brought me back with him to Dartmoor and the Heights. My parents, I was told, perished within a month of one another, of cholera, and if they had any fortune to leave me apart from my father’s gold watch, I never heard of it.

Yet, Mr. Holmes has never treated me with any less regard than he does his own sons— excepting that it has always been understood that Mycroft, as eldest, is the heir; and that while Sherlock may expect an income sufficient to live as a gentleman in the sad event of Mr. Holmes’s eventual passing— God willing, not for many years more— that I can expect next to nothing. The family fortunes have been declining, slowly but for some considerable time now, as even I can see from the occasional but steady reductions in the household and the recent sale of a few family treasures.

The reasons for this, whatever they may be, are known only to Mr. Holmes (and, I suspect, Mycroft), and are never spoken of. But with Mr. Holmes evidently making, or at least consulting his lawyer concerning some alterations in his plans concerning the Holmes estate, it is plain that I, too, must make plans concerning my own affairs, meagere as they are.

Sherlock is leaving for Oxford next month. The time, which usually creeps so slowly here, has cruelly flown by on wings of Mercury to bring the day I dread ever closer. When he departs, I cannot stay at the Heights. It is a cold enough place with him; it will be beyond endurance without him. When he is gone, there will be nothing to keep me here.

_10 November, 1835_

I passed a sleepless night. Just as I thought my eyes might finally close, the clatter of the lawyer’s coach made them fly open again. I cannot say why I felt drawn to the window to watch the coach disappear as though swallowed by the yew alley.

Today I shall confess to Sherlock what I have been plotting for weeks. When I say plotting, it is because I feel a traitor, but setting it down here in my book makes it seem more real, and I must do all in my power to persist in a course that takes me out of what has been no more than a dream-world, the fancies of mere children.

I have no hope of joining the regular British Army as an officer. It has been made plain to me that there is no money to procure me a commission.

But a pamphlet I found nailed to a post outside the Boar’s Head in Coombe Tracey a fortnight ago has given me the first clear rays of light on the uncertain path to a life and future beyond the gates of Baskerville Heights. The East India Company’s army college, the pamphlet announced, accepts a small number of cadets on scholarship each year. One must stand for an examination, and demonstrate some promise in arms. I am fired by a small flame of hope that what learning I have gained here, so generously provided by Mr Holmes, and enriched by Sherlock whenever he is able (and I willing), together with my ability with pistol and rifle, will stand me in good stead to be admitted. I hope, too, that Mr Holmes will be willing to aid me by such connexions as he has in London.

It is about this plan that I had screwed up my courage to speak with Mr Holmes last night, but his black mood (or blacker mood than usual, for all of the Holmeses are susceptible to fits of dark fancy), and seclusion in the library long into the night with the Essex lawyer, did not invite my interruption.

Last week, the groom was dismissed, and Mycroft pronounced that I would assume his duties, as “it was time for me to repay this house for their father’s charity.” Sherlock was furious and struck at his brother but I put myself between them— and earned a blow from Mycroft for my trouble.

There are only three horses now where once there were eight. There is a stable boy, but I am evidently expected to tend and groom the horses now, and keep the tack in order, until such time as a new groom is retained. This does not seem likely to be soon. It does not distress me. The horses and I understand one another, and I think they are glad of me. But there is nothing for me here, and I must leave Baskerville Heights, I told the horses— for the sake of telling someone. My lips froze shut at the thought of telling Sherlock. I was thinking seriously over these matters, with a heart both heavy and hopeful in my breast, when Sherlock found me.

“The horses do not require nearly as much care as the time you spend in the stable would appear to warrant,” Sherlock said accusingly. “I never find you in the house now.”

Sherlock was dressed to ride on the moor, with his heavy blue cloak and high boots. His dark curling hair had escaped from the ribbon at his neck and was falling to his shoulders. He took a step closer, obliging me to look up into his face, for now he is nearly a man of eighteen years, and though I am the older, he outstrips me by a full foot, as does his brother. I have never heeded this before. Lately, though, I do not like Sherlock so close.

I stepped back, and he gave me a sharp, inquiring look. I was glad that there is little light in the stables, as it might conceal my high colour. But perhaps it did not. Sherlock notes everything— it is his peculiar talent. (These feelings I know I should keep in my heart and not consign to writing. Perhaps I will burn this book, as Mycroft did my last).

“Will you ride with me to Coombe Tracey?”

“With your father up from town? You should stay here.”

I wanted nothing more than to ride out with Sherlock and confess my plan to him, but I had my own reason for wishing to stay behind to await my opportunity to speak with Mr. Holmes, who might return to London with as little notice as he had come.

Sherlock snorted. “He has no time for me, which is as well. He was closed up with that old lawyer in the rusty suit all night, and is back in the library again this morning.”

In the end, it was not difficult to give in to Sherlock’s entreaty, as I usually did to any of his desires. The strange atmosphere in the house made me wish to put miles of open moor between it, and the two of us. We were soon riding out on the barren hills, with low dark clouds threatening rain.

My horse, the white mare called Dame Blanche, pulled up lame just as the rain broke upon us, and I climbed down so that we could make our way to the shelter of the nearest tor. This proved to be Hound Tor, so called because it looks like a crouching hound guarding the moor— but it is also said, Hound Tor is the very tor where old Sir Roderick Baskerville was slain by the whist-hound that curses that family.

I prised a stone from Dame Blanche’s hoof and we settled with our backs under the curving stone, which was still slightly warm from the last of the winter sun. Our shoulders rested against one another lightly. I should not write of this. When we were young, we thought nothing of putting our arms around one another for warmth and comfort while we named the shapes of clouds— dragons, ponies, dogs, angels and devils— as they sped their way over the moor, or pretending that the wind that lashed us against the rock came up from the sea, and the waving grasses were waves before the prow of our pirate ship.

It came to me that if Mr Holmes granted my request, this might be the last occasion that Sherlock and I should ever be alone out on the moor together— perhaps for years; and perhaps, for ever.

“Sherlock--” I said, not knowing how to start. My heart felt as if it would burst, and a hard tightness in my throat swallowed whatever I would have said.

“Stay with me, John. You must,” Sherlock said. So he already knew. He could probably read it in my face. Sherlock Holmes knew everything about plain John Watson, and always had. “You promised.”

He looked so solemn and yet so boyish that I realised that he meant this, truly, and my heart, wrung with pain like a knife’s blade, seemed to sink into the wet ground at our feet.

“We were children when we made those promises, Sherlock. But promises won’t make me my own man, or my fortune.”

“Fortune? How will you gain one, save by further improving your mind? Come with me to Oxford— I will share all I have with you, you know that. And I will tutor you. You can try to sit for examination next year.”

The fact that Sherlock Holmes had persuaded himself that he could pull me up by the strength of his own brilliance was not proof of faith in my own scholarship— which was, I knew, as he did, insufficient for me to think of attempting to enter Oxford as a charity scholar— but that he could not imagine leaving Baskerville Heights without me.

Could I imagine leaving Baskerville Heights without him?

“What will people at Oxford say when you bring me to live with you in your rooms? Will you tell them I am your valet? Or your father’s groom? I swear to you, it is so hard to leave you, Sherlock, that I would almost do it!”

Sherlock’s face darkened. He was not often angry except when Mycroft was cruel to me. It was a terrible feeling.

“I’ll tell them you are my brother, and to mind their own affairs. I’ll strike down anyone who dares call you my manservant!” His eyes blazed.

“But we are not brothers, Sherlock.”

I looked away, for fear he would see what should not be there.

* *

When I was a boy, when I wasn’t dreaming of being the secret heir of a royal family, or a pirate captain, I dreamt that it would be discovered that I was Mr. Holmes’s true son. When I was very young, I didn’t understand what being a bastard was. When I grew older, I didn’t care. I would have given anything to be a Holmes bastard rather than what I really was— I would have given anything to be truly one of them. But these were dreams only, and I am doomed to always be, if not a bastard, then an outcomer in this place where everyone’s blood but mine has been bred on this moor for centuries.

I had said something that Sherlock had not ever given serious thought to before, and his mouth fell open. My pen trembles to write this much because, God help me, I tried to look away. But I could not stop myself gazing at his parted lips in a way that I cannot believe that even in his undoubted innocence he did not notice, even if he does not understand. I turned away and mounted my horse, and rode back to Baskerville Heights without looking back.

* *

I wish I did not understand myself, but I have been plagued with almost nightly dreams, painted in the most vivid colours, lips and arms and legs and— damned heat— I wake sick and hot, and must change my nightshirt.

I have felt a pale echo of these nighttime passions— for that is what they are— dreaming (and somewhat more than dreaming) of one of the maids. These troublesome dreams are far more real to me than any dream should be, and I can almost believe what the priest in the village says, that such thoughts are a plague from the devil himself. I must find an occupation to keep my mind and body from these torments tonight.

My greatest privilege at Baskerville Heights is use of the fine library, and I will be very sorry to leave it, alone of all this house. Unlike Sherlock, I am no great scholar, but I have spent some of my happiest hours here reading Walter Scott’s novels. When we were boys, we read The Pirate, taking turns reading aloud to one another upon a broken sofa in the old part of the hall— especially when Mycroft was away and we were left to our own pursuits. Sherlock’s voice always has had a power over me, and he says nothing could be more soothing to his mind than to listen to mine.

We used to ride out to the stone circle near Fernworthy mere and pretend they were the Standing Stones of Stenness, and that Sherlock was the noble pirate Cleveland, and I, at Sherlock’s insistence, the captain of his ship. But Sherlock used to make me read aloud the passage where Cleveland tells the girl he loves of “the love that I bear you, the most powerful emotion that any heart ever knew.”

Sherlock would not admit his reason for asking me to read these words, which I nevertheless surmise must be that the Holmeses feel themselves bound by the terrible curse of the Baskervilles, and hence must strictly bar any emotion approaching love from ever touching their unnaturally cold hearts.

 


End file.
